


Il Fantasma Dell'Opera

by spectravondergeist



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber, ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: F/F, F/M, FugoTrish, Giotrish - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Phantom of the Opera AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22244740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectravondergeist/pseuds/spectravondergeist
Summary: Deformed from birth, a bitter man known as The Phantom lives in the sewers beneath the Teatro di San Carlo; the Napolis opera house. He becomes obsessed with Trish, an orphaned girl sent to the opera at her mother’s dying wish in hopes of finding the identity of her estranged father. Privately tutoring the young ingénue, The Phantom reigns terror and cruel tricks alongside his demands of the opera staff, pushing Trish into the lead roles. Though the mischievous Phantom is not all at play at the 'Opera Popolare'. The head manager, Signore Buccellati, welcomes the promising young Vicount di Giovanna, a childhood friend of the leading lady, who holds secret plans to overthrow the anonymous, cryptic man behind it all- a man even more powerful than the mysterious Phantom.
Relationships: Giorno Giovanna/Trish Una, Pannacotta Fugo/Trish Una
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. Prologo

Oh, how she loathed to get her feet wet. Such an occurrence was far more intolerable in such gloomy weather, when there was no sunshine to come and dry her stockings and little boots; yet as the young girl ran quickly across the wet sand, she was soaked to the skin. Skirt clutched and hiked in her small hands, chasing desperately after the scarf her mother told her not to loose, Trish silently cursed herself for letting it escape her grasp. She nearly gasped aloud, watching in terror as the red wool, knit with love by her late Nonna, was pulled by the winds to the angry, crystalline waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea. 

When the rain stopped that morning, Trish’s mother had sent her to the market. She had planned to take a detour to the shore to look for anything washed up, having heard weeks ago a story of a village girl, who after a dreadful storm, had allegedly found the most beautiful ring brought in by the tide, embedded with the biggest diamond she had ever seen. Trish had never seen a real diamond before, but she could easily imagine their beauty. How she longed to have one; If not on a ring, than a necklace perhaps, or even a bracelet- at this point, she could not be all too picky- she would not even complain of the colour. But Trish was only a girl, not even nine, what use had she for any old diamonds? Oh, but it would be terribly nice regardless.

Unfortunately, there were more pressing matters at hand than a lack of glamour strewn across the windy shores. The milky grey clouds overhead rolled like the smoke of a cigar, and for the fear that the rain would start again, she continued to chase the scarf as the waves pulled it to the jagged rocks- this time, equipped with a long piece of driftwood she thought rather appropriate for scarf-catching. The bells of Santa Maria dell'Isola begin to chime, echoing into the sea beyond the cliffs. The abrupt, deep sound frightened Trish. She turned quickly to the source, the quick motion causing the red kerchief, holding in place her rosy curls, to slip behind her head. Her gaze cast downward from the worship above, and she saw standing in the shadow of the cliff a young boy. Slowly, Trish placed down the wood.

Unbeknownst to her, the boy charily took her action as an invitation to approach. When he padded over in his squeaky rubbers (something she wished she had worn that day, earlier having said firmly to her mother she would not wear such atrocities in public), he stared for a moment. Trish stared back. He was shorter than her, his hair straight and black, and his eyes blue and empty; they were haunting in contrast to the intensity of the waters around them. They appeared both to stare someplace far beyond, and yet, bore into her own as he spoke, “Did you lose your scarf in the water?”

Speaking to strangers was not something Trish fancied; she was a shy girl. Though by no means meek, presenting herself before others was something of an ailment to the young girl, and she felt an outcast outcast in the small social circle of the towns children, oftentimes unable to share in their youthful glee. It stood often unintentional on her part, but the others would whisper nonetheless, calling her names. She was often referred to as ‘stuck up’ and ‘mean’. No one had ever taken to look past this façade, though it was not something she would let them do easily, either. She assumed ‘stuck up’ was how she appeared to the boy before her as her nose scrunched in revolt, replying with a curt ‘No.’

“I saw you,” he spoke again. The deadpan and small tone in which he replied made her voice feel like an echo in contrast, and her throat tightened. Before her lips parted in excuse, he continued: “Would you like me to help retrieve it?”

Trish was taken aback by this gesture. Where she had expected him to laugh at her humiliating display of clumsiness, even more so her delirious dash through the sand, he instead offered his aid. Perhaps, she thought, he did not look much the type to laugh at all to begin with. Trish studied his face, staring into the shallow depths of his queer eyes once more, and wondered if the boy had even laughed a day in his life. The proposition seemed unlikely.

“My scarf was swept up into the water. How so you suppose we will even reach it?” she questioned, anxiously adjusting her kerchief. He offered no reply, instead stepping past her and picking up the driftwood she earlier let go. As he sought the red in the water, Trish followed his steps, straying on the far side of the tide, watching with curious eyes as the peculiar boy began to climb the dark boulders that freckled the shoreline. “What are you doing?” she spoke, more as a statement than a real question, her tone condescending at best. Again he kept silent, clambering closer to the water with the driftwood outstretched to fish her scarf from the sea.

Before the strange boy was able to reach, an exasperated voice cried out in the same direction he had before appeared, surprising both children. Trish did not see him slip from the rock into the water, but fear froze the blood in her veins when she heard the splash. The gasp she had been withholding finally escaped her, yet it felt as only a whisper in contrast to the woman across the beach, who broke out into a sprint, crossing the distance towards them. Trish's small hands clamped over her gaping mouth, watching in electrifying fear and anticipation as the boy pulled himself from the water and onto the shore. He dragged behind him the sopping scarf.

“You stupid boy,” sobbed the woman, lunging towards him and grabbing hold of his shoulder, pulling him further from the water. “What on earth were you thinking? Walking off on your own like that- and when I find you, you’re out looking for trouble! Why, I didn’t even know you could swim. Your jacket is all ruined- your hands are cold as death! What will your father have to say of this? And what of the ceremony? Oh, you’ve ruined everything!” As she carried on, vexation and venom swimming in her words, the boy made no move to defend himself. He stood in silence, refusing to meet her scornful gaze. Trish made no move to defend him either, only silently observing the woman before them. 

She appeared to be the mother of the boy, evident by the way she scolded him. Contrary to her plain-looking son, the woman was a sight to behold, and Trish found herself in awe of the alluring presence. A tall, thin foreigner, with luscious dark hair, high cheekbones and lily-white skin; her voice was drawn in an accent that the young girl could not recognize, though she spoke their tongue well. She grew shy again in her presence, watching quietly as the woman admonished the boy, making crude remarks of the burden of children, and how he would regret this for as long as he lived. By the boys frail appearance, that did not seem to be much longer. Trish stopped, and wondered if she was a burden to her mother as well; she had no father to care for them.

Pushing the thought from her mind, her blue eyes wandered from the woman's face to her bust; on her regal, violet coat was the most beautiful broach Trish had ever seen, pinned loosely to her lapel. Twisted, flowery silver, set with pink-coloured pearls, and glimmering little crystals she could only pray were diamonds. The woman began to shake the boy with resentment, the broach fell loose, and Trish said nothing again, watching as it slipped to the muddy sand at her feet.

It took the young girl an astounding amount of willpower not to reach for the treasure, but she contained her excitement until the boy and his mother turned away, the latter dragging him by the sleeve of his soaking beige coat. He looked smaller then he had before, weaker even. Yet when he had saved her scarf, pulling himself from the sea without so much as a word, much less a howl of fear, the strength he had shown seemed intangible. She dwelled on such a thought only a moment longer, for when they were far enough away, she dove, gleefully cradling the marvellous thing in her little hands. The pin was broken and had been lost in the fall, though she saw it nowhere in the sand, perhaps was still stuck on the coat of the unsuspecting and (Trish thought, rather wicked mother). Yet the girl cared not, only admiring the twinkle of the stones adorning, placing securely it in the pocket of her white pinafore. She dreamed of their reactions, the other children's; they would marvel at its glory, and she would tell them it was a gift from the sea- far more extravagant than a silly old ring washing up (one that had only one diamond at that, and not a pearl to speak of).

Her excitement faltered as the boy disappeared, and mind fell back to the scarf. Trish rose, shaking it free of sand as best she could. Turning the heavy wool in her hand, she glanced back up to the spot they had vanished. A large bird squawked, and Trish felt suddenly guilty for not having asked the silent hero his name, much less granting him a ‘Thank You.’


	2. Capitolo Primo

Not a soul knew who the boy was then, yet when he walked through the doors of the Teatro di San Carlo, with wavy locks of sunshine gold, and frock coat of fine indigo wool, he was a sight to behold. Graciously, he was greeted with stares not well hidden, whispers, or ignorance on the part of some. Standing to the side, he focused not on those around him, only breathing in the visions he had long since seen. 

The Vicount di Giovanna, christened Giorno, was scarcely known to the public; his late mother spoke very little of the only son she had. Giorno oftentimes told himself she was only selfish- some things were too bitter for a child to swallow. The countess was once a vivacious woman, living for enchantment and vain delight. Though she cared not for performances outside her own, she came often to the opera for the social scene, and the attentions which followed suit. Both with beauty and superficial charm, she shone as a star in any crowd- when she waltzed, they would part, as she was Moses and they, the sea. If her son ever possessed talent the same, it fell dim in the light of his mothers acclaim and allure. 

Only once in his childhood had the boy accompanied her to the opera, his attendance a begrudging birthday gift, graced to him in the spring of his eighth year. The evening he spent as an accessory on his mother’s hip, shown off as if he were no more than a handsome bracelet. Her society fawned momentarily over him, with coos of delight to the little boy, but they soon waded in the shallow matters of more exciting conversations, and he was cast aside once more. When the show began and their empty gossips fell silent, Giorno instead fell to a world of enchantment. Despite the years of otherwise, he thought then that surely his mother must have loved him, even if it amounted to only a crumb, for this was the most magnificent gift he had ever received. He was afraid to close his eyes, even to blink, for if they opened again, they surely would be blurred away in the glow of early dawn, as only but a dream, bittersweet. 

Though not a dream, to which he prayed many thanks, Giorno found his joy too short lived. The family had gone to Tropea a few weeks following, to attend the wedding of a cousin. There the child befell an innocent misfortune, and his mother was apoplectic that he would humiliate her so before the ceremony. The boy was sent thereafter to a boarding school far from his home, and very seldom saw his mother until she took ill and died when he was sixteen. By then, too much had changed, and he was the least bit sorry for it. His stepfather followed her to the grave several months after, and Giorno was left the sizeable sum of all they took for granted. He made haste to sell their estate and as many bad memories as he could shake with it, choosing to build his life anew. He took all they failed to teach him, bringing about his own success. In present year, at nineteen, he thought of the crumbs, and thus became a patron to his happiest memory.

“Signore Vicount,” came a voice from the stairs, and when Giorno responded with a raise of his hand, the whispers around him fell to an almost silence. A man at the railing greeted him with a smile, drifting down to shake his hand. “Welcome, sir. The Teatro di San Carlo thanks you most graciously.” Giorno returned the formality with a nod of his head. “Thank you for having me as well. The manager… Signore Buccellati, I presume? I look forward to all that is to come here.”

Bruno Buccellati was extremely handsome, though by no means conventionally. His hair was black as night, styled in a peculiar, girlish bob. The dark, glossy strands which framed his olive cheeks cast a brighter glow in his blue eyes, and the blond sensed no malice nor contempt within them- as he bore deeper, he found in him a lock to which he did not possess the key, and his interest was raised. Adorning golden pins, their shape likened to that of beatles, he kept up an overall odd appearance. Aside from his physique, the kind, unfaltering smile he possessed was the only clue the viscount had as to the true nature of such a character. He seemed reticent. Perhaps Giorno was brought up in a considerably lugubrious environment, given the nature of his apprehension, but Buccellati had given him no seed to plant within trust.

The manager pulled back; if he had noticed the unease of the younger, he spoke of it naught. Inteased, he offered the boy a warm and gracious laugh, asking Giorno when was the last he had come to visit. The company stayed quiet, plenty watching their exchange with intent, and very few minding their business. Giorno ignored them regardless, and lied to the manager, allowing his suspicion to be placed aside, if only for the present moment. It slipped beside him, a sword in its sheath, and his hand lingered at the hilt, not yet ready to let down his guard.

In turn of his response, which entailed “two years back, to see Giuseppi’s ‘Rigoletto’,” Buccellati was wary; the face of the young Giovanna was not one he could so easily forget. Though the show was true, he nearly dared to ask him the season and date, but the action appeared disrespectful, and he opted against it for the betterment of his establishment, as to not offend the viscount. He was still a patron- and a powerful one at that. He instead made a small jest of the productions success, and Giorno was given a faint relief. He made move to speak again, but the words were killed in the womb of his throat as the shrill cry of a young girl seized the entire foyer. Twenty pairs of eyes looked up at once, and the girl above gasped for air. “It is the opera ghost!” she exclaimed, Buccellati running immediately to meet her, “Leaky eye Luca is dead!”

The hall was mum, quiet as the grave, and promptly she collapsed in the arms of the manager. As sudden as the silence came was as sudden as it waned, and hysterical chatter immediately followed suit. Giorno, only a moment ago the centre of attention, was now only a fly on the wall. Unlike his mother, this troubled him naught. As Bruno consoled the inconsolable girl, what seemed the entire ballet ensemble flooded in with the power of a tidal wave. Swimming around Buccellati, he was pulled out to sea. They pushed over one another, twenty new voices squawking, and the viscount was left upon the sand, far from the spectacle, but left with the scattered ideas carried by the ocean breeze. 

The blond caught breaths between the mayhem- a phantom, a scene shifter found dead, Guido Mista’s discovery- who was Guido Mista? And who was Leaky eye Luca? Buccellati raised his hand, and with the simple motion, the ballet was mute. “Where is Mista now?” he asked, and ten hands shot up at once, but only one stepped forth. “He went to find Narancia, who went to find Signore Abbacchio and the Ispettore,” she whispered, and the dark haired man grimaced. “All of you, gather to the stage, and give the message along to anyone you may pass- do not let a soul leave. We will figure this out at once; I am going to find Mista.” With that, he was off, and Giorno remained on the shore as the gale swept the dancers and crew away.

The Teatro di San Carlo was a glorious sight to behold; Giorno took a moment to take in all that he had missed. It seemed almost as though nothing was altered, but the emanation had changed; perhaps it was always different when there was no performance occuring. The ceilings were high, graced with a portrait of Apollo, framed by a canvas of gold and red, and a hundred twinkling lights glistening upon each balcony. Graceful carvings of angels and shields glossed each rail, dancing from the Sun God to the sea of velvet seats below. On any normal afternoon, he guessed, things would look much different- the orchestral pit would be in full bloom with instruments tuning; the dancers would stretch their graceful limbs, and the voice of the cast would be put to practice in their art. Yet now, though only twelve-noon, the theatre was brimming, with people scattered in every which way, though most gathered upon the stage. The crazed conversations reached Giorno's ear as but white noise; he was immersed in studying the spectacle surrounding, recounting with each breath his happy day. 

But things were different for him there, and not just in lieu of a ghost and a corpse. There was a seductive mystique afoot which drew him in; as intuition flirted with imagination, the young viscount determined he would uncover what secrets were lain in the belly of the Neapolitan opera.

Forty minutes passed in slow anticipation. Though well endowed in patience, his curiosity only bloomed the longer Buccellati’s absence pertained. Eavesdropping was considerably unlike a gentleman, but Giorno nonetheless found himself tuning to the whispers around him. The Phantom was mentioned there and again, and his interest was piqued. Repeating the name aloud, now as a question, few turned to him with smothered gasps, and not for the fact they had seldom recounted they were in the presence of a viscount. “No, Signore. We speak naught of this phantom; he is only a rumour!” stated firmly a blue-haired ballerino, his words sharp and cold as ice as he spoke through gritted teeth. His confidant, who sported a shaved head and short-sleeved jacket, began to snigger.

“Disregard my friend, sir,” began the gruffer of the two, “His skepticism is abhorrent. The Phantom is real, not only a ghost, but a man! I have seen him in the flesh, just as well as I see you before me now!” When he spoke, he leered closer to the face of Giorno, who felt much inclined to take a step backwards. His tone grew grim and serious as he continued. “The opera ghost is causing a lot of trouble here… he has been a thorn in our side for three years now. No one has seen his face, save for the recently deceased- The Phantom does not like to be seen, and for good reason too. He wears a mask to cover the monstrosity beneath.” He paused, waiting for Giorno to further prompt him.

The viscount raised a brow, and the ballerino proceeded. “I consider myself a great deal lucky to not have seen- only Leaky eye Luca has been granted such a pleasure, and he is- er, was,- even more skeptical than Ghiaccio,” (he motioned to the angry boy beside him) “If Luca thought what he saw was only a twisted joke, he would have kept his trap shut. But he was scared shitless when he told us, and the description we got… well, it’s no wonder he ended up dead!” speaking so disrespectfully of the deceased, he was met with nasty stares, one woman slapping him on the shoulder with a reprimanding ‘Formaggio!’. Formaggio seemed to pay no mind, laughing at his own wicked humour. He cleared his throat, growing serious once more. “But what Luca told me still gives me chills… The Phantom is a grotesque figure, his eyes red as a rat beneath the mask, and hair white as death itself. What goes uncovered, he appears as only a young man, but beneath, he is a corpse! His face is covered in blisters, pustules, scars and scabs; twisted in sickly, unfading bruises of red and violet, with black streaks, like vines, entangled beneath his swollen flesh. He is a disease! His fleshy blain bubbles and peels, flayed from rotting skin like ribbons. He is a monster, wearing the face of a dead man!”

As he described this gruesome man, his icy companion, deemed Ghiaccio, boiled over in rage, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, and his face growing hot and red. Though he looked ready to break his already fragile composure and cause a scene, Giorno paid him no focus, and was enraptured by the tale of the mysterious opera ghost. Despite the danseur’s claim about Luca’s character, he himself remained skeptical as to the superfluousness of it all. It seemed unlikely such a creature could really exist, taunting the establishment in such a vicious game of cat and mouse that it cost a man his life. There had to be something more at play, be it much simpler than they hoped, or perhaps far, far worse.

Buccellati returned to the stage, followed by a rather strange chorus. A becapped ballerino, adorned in a cropped shirt and nervous expression, awkwardly stretching his toned and beastly legs in the itchy ballet tights. A shorter boy, with a mop of stygian hair, evidently untamed, gilded by a thick bandage covering his eye and a fair portion of his face. Finally, a brooding man of intimidating stature, with straight silver locks tied casually over his shoulder, and clad in a long and mysterious-looking black overcoat. They seemed an eldritch quartet, yet within the chaos, were not enough then to silence the room (though Giorno felt on any other day, they might have been). The shorter boy appeared frantic and impatient, shouting to the crowd something rather crude, and crossing his arms triumphantly as the voices fizzled out. Buccellati cleared his throat, and the ballerino removed his cap, his short brown curls sticking to his forehead in anxious perspiration, holding the article by his heart. “I can confirm that the rumours are true,” Buccellati began, his voice nearly strained, “We have found Luca. No one is to leave the building.”


End file.
